Borderland

Prologue

The Borderland Hotel was built in 1894, near where the Chemin de Champney road in Canada crosses into Champney, Vermont. At the time, there had been a railroad crossing there, and the owner, Mr. Thibault, had visions of weary travelers stepping off the train and needing a good meal and a bed for the night. Today, the tracks have been torn up, and only an overgrown bike trail shows the path the trains once took. The border station has been converted to a private home, and a sign warns cyclists not to cross the border at that location. Few remember the sprawling Edwardian hotel with its beautiful walled garden of roses and neatly trimmed topiaries crisscrossed by flagstone pathways.

Yet it is still there. The gardens have been claimed by the surrounding forest, and the hotel is no longer visible from the main road. But a faded wooden sign, painted in white and remnants of gold, still directs travelers to venture up the long, winding drive in search of lodgings.

***

The gardens were what bothered Rebecca Thibault the most. She could remember what they’d been like, how magical they’d appeared to her as a little girl. Her father hadn’t lived to see them—or the rest of the hotel—finished. He’d died of a stroke the year the foundation was laid, leaving his wife to oversee the hotel’s completion. When her health also began to fail her, Rebecca stepped in as curator.

Miss Thibault had operated the hotel for a very long time now, assisted by a small staff still dedicated to the old place. Mr. Harvey, the old gardener, wasn’t up to maintaining much more than the rose beds on the patio, where guests were served tea in warm weather. It would have been nice to hire someone to…well, certainly not to replace dear Mr. Harvey, but to give him some assistance—a younger man who could reclaim some of the garden—but the money simply wasn’t there.

Inside the hotel was another matter. There were two young maids, a cook, and Thomas to help with any odd jobs. Their wages were low, due to the financial constraints, but they were still expected to take pride in their work. Rebecca demanded that linens be kept clean, woodwork polished, walls wiped down, and rugs taken outside often and thoroughly beaten. The hotel had working fireplaces, despite the steam radiators that were installed when it was built, and it was necessary to continually purge the rooms of soot.

It was the thought of fireplaces that led Rebecca to wonder if the fire in the drawing room might be burning low. Earlier that morning, Mrs. Corwin, a guest from New Hampshire who’d stumbled across the Borderland on her way to Newport, had requested Thomas build up the fire for her so she might warm herself while sipping her coffee. It wouldn’t hurt to make certain it was still burning and perhaps ask if the guest might like another cup of coffee.

To her dismay, when she entered the drawing room, Rebecca saw immediately that the fireplace was dark and cold. Furthermore, there was a dank, unpleasant smell to the room—something sour and rotten. When had the maids last aired the room out?

Mrs. Corwin? she called, approaching the stuffed Edwardian chair in which the middle-aged woman sat. From behind, Rebecca could see only the hem of the woman’s pastel-pink bathrobe and one of her ridiculous furry slippers. There was no answer, but she said, I see Thomas let the fire go out. Shall I call him to light it for you?

When there was still no answer, she walked quietly around to the front of the chair, not wanting to disturb the woman if she were sleeping. But she soon saw there was little cause for tiptoeing. Mrs. Corwin wasn’t sleeping. Her robe was pulled tightly about her body, one browned, shriveled claw of a hand clutching the collar. Her other hand rested upon the small mahogany table beside the chair, the handle of a delicate china coffee cup still hooked by a bony finger.

Rebecca shuddered at the sight of one of her china cups perched so precariously on the edge of its saucer, barely prevented from falling over by that lifeless hand. She bent to retrieve it, noticing a ring of dried coffee staining the inside of the cup. How long had it been sitting there? Surely the inch or so of coffee indicated by the stain couldn’t have evaporated in just a couple of hours.

Mrs. Corwin’s arm crackled and shifted when the cup was removed, causing the dried parchment face to swivel on the neck and gaze with hollow eye sockets at those silly slippers. The lips were drawn back from ill-fitting false teeth, and the mouth was frozen open as if gasping for air.

Rebecca frowned and went to pull the cord hanging beside the fireplace. A few minutes later, one of the young maids scurried into the room. Yes, ma’am?

Grace, did you happen to notice when our guest…left us?

The young girl looked at Mrs. Corwin with wide, blue eyes. No, ma’am.

This sort of thing always put Rebecca out of sorts. She liked to run a tidy hotel. Leaving a mess like this in the drawing room for…well, it must have been months! That was not the sort of thing her mother would have tolerated.

Very well, Grace, she said with a sigh. Please find Thomas, so the two of you can straighten up the room.

Grace wrinkled up her nose and asked, Should I air the place out, ma’am? It smells a bit off.

I should say so. And have Thomas check the attic for another chair. This one may need to be reupholstered.

Chapter One

He hated the way it smelled in here. It was cold and reeked of antiseptic wherever you went—even in the waiting rooms where worried families gathered to comfort each other during a loved one’s operation. These rooms were sometimes even worse, with their ridiculous attempt at trying to look comfortable and inviting where they were, in fact, like every other room in the damn hospital—utilitarian. It was a place where the doctor or a nurse could walk in with a somber face to share the bad news or with shoulders back to let the family know that things looked good, they looked real good. Either way, there were usually tears, but the room had been created so that they were easily wiped away to make ready for the next.

But it wasn’t the waiting room George Uphill and his husband Jason were heading toward. No, as the couple walked hand in hand down the hallway, George couldn’t help but feel the anxiety run through his blood like poison, causing him to sweat under his arms. Their waiting was over and the moment of truth had come. Now, as they continued through hallways of that oh-too-familiar hospital on their way to the oncology ward, George felt like a dead man walking. He wanted to turn and run, just to leave this place, get in the car and drive to Mexico where they would find a witch doctor with some Aztec remedy for the mass growing in his brain. They would make him high on peyote and stick him in a sweat lodge, and when he came out, a withered, toothless old man would shake a stick of rattlesnake charms at him as his eyes would roll in the back of his head, and suddenly the gnawing pain would be gone.

They walked toward the gift shop where a new dad was fumbling for his wallet, his hands shaking so bad with nerves that he dropped it once and nearly flung the credit card at the woman at the register. The woman walked around and securely placed the vase of flowers snug in his arms, gave him a reassuring pat, and walked him to the door. To George, he looked so young and green under the gills, slightly panic-stricken as he walked in front of the couple on his way to the elevator that they were also headed to. He stopped to let an orderly push by with an elderly lady withered on a gurney. Standing there, watching the crossroad of new life and fast-approaching death, George felt his heart jump, knowing deep down he was closer to the woman’s fate than to the elation and adventure of the new father in front of him.

Aware of the hesitation and stiffness in his husband’s body, Jason squeezed his hand, and George looked at him. Jason was watching him, those same hazel eyes that had peeked out curiously between a stack at a library when he thought George wasn’t paying attention. Those same eyes that always made him catch his breath and steadied his mind. Those eyes that laughed and wept and rolled back in passion when they had been too overcome to make it to the bedroom, and those same eyes that rolled back in ecstasy when George took them both over the edge with whispered passion and sweaty limbs.

I’m right here. All the way, George, he said. All the way—a phrase both of them had used with each other since the beginning of their relationship.

Jason gave his hand another squeeze as they waited for the elevator door to open. It did, with a ding, and the new father almost mowed into the people coming off but stepped aside just in time after dancing with a nurse who tried to get around him. George smiled, despite himself, as they proceeded onto the elevator still grasping hands.

***

The office was nice, spacious, and well decorated. The two men were ushered in by the doctor’s assistant, Cindy—a sweet lady with a slight southern accent who had always been so kind to them. She asked if she could bring them anything; both men shook their heads, and she politely left them. Jason pulled the chair out for George and sat in the chair next to him, both waiting for the specialist to come out of one of the examination rooms with another patient. Jason reached back over for George’s hand, found his husband’s shaking leg, and instead placed his hand on his knee. The action wasn’t simply for George’s sake; Jason’s insides felt like they were in a vise and the act of trying to calm his husband, in turn, had a calming effect on Jason.

This whole ordeal had stressed both men to the extremes, throwing a huge wrench into their day-to-day life. Six months of doctors, needles, chemotherapy, radiation, and worry had caused George to lose his hair and the pep in his step. Both of them were considerably wealthy, having made their fortunes in various enterprises, Jason as an engineer and George as a doctor, and while the medical bills had put a dent in their accounts, it was barely even noticeable. Money couldn’t buy you happiness, and it certainly could not buy you health. It wasn’t like Jason hadn’t tried. During those late nights when George had been overcome with exhaustion, Jason had been up all night on the web, checkbook ready, trying to find any plausible way to cure his husband, even if it left them in financial ruin. Alas, M.D. Anderson hospital in Houston was their best hope.

I wonder what’s taking so long, George said. She said my results were in and— He was interrupted by the door opening up and the doctor walking in.

Good morning, George. Hello, Jason, how are you? She walked past them and moved around to her side of the desk. As she passed, she brushed her hand along George’s back, and a knot in Jason’s stomach that had been there for months tightened. There was something about the touch that was sympathetic, and suddenly he was very afraid.

Pretty good, Doc. How are you? George asked anxiously as his knee began to bounce.

She didn’t answer right away but grabbed a folder off the top of her filing cabinet and sat at the desk before looking at them both. She was a beautiful black woman with skin the color of mahogany, wide, almond-shaped eyes, and honey-colored irises that just drew you right into her gaze. When they had met, she had spoken to them with confidence, professionalism, and a determination that had directed their attention at defeating the cancer growing in George’s brain. But now, she seemed a little flat, and Jason wasn’t the only one to pick up on that.

It’s not working is it, Dr. Coleman? George asked.

No, George, it didn’t work. Now, we can continue to treat with higher doses of both chemo and radi— she started, and as soon as she did, George didn’t feel like the floor had gone out underneath him. Instead, a calm washed over him, unlike anything he’d felt since this experience began. He was dying. He would soon be gone. George lifted a hand and kept Dr. Coleman from continuing.

Thank you, Doctor, but I’ve been sick for almost a year. How long do I have? he asked point-blank. There was a protracted period of silence as the truth hung between them all. Then everyone started talking at once.

George, I think you should let her—

I’m not spending what short time I have on this earth throwing—

There are alternatives— Dr. Coleman urgently tried to break in between the two.

George!

—up everything I eat, passing out from exhaustion, shitting out chemicals, feeling like I am dying anyway, dammit. How long do I have?! he shouted at Jason and then more gently as he turned back to the doctor, Please.

Jason was stunned wordless and could only look at her for guidance, a glimmer of hope in some alternative treatment, but those hopes were dashed when she sat back in her chair and gave him a sorrowful look. Suddenly it felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room and the three of them sat suspended in a vacuum. For the life of him, he couldn’t seem to draw a breath. Once more he reached for George’s hand and felt George’s fingers clasp his like vise grips.

Without the constant use of chemotherapy and radiation to keep the tumor at bay… You’re dying, Mr. Uphill. I’m sorry. She looked George in the eye, and he kept her gaze for as long as he could before finally nodding.

Wait, what about the alternatives? Jason asked, finding air again.

Most of those are still in the experimental phase, and if anything, they would, like the chemotherapy, extend his life incrementally.

Panic-stricken, Jason leaned forward, all self-control fleeing. What are we talking? Days? Weeks? Months?

Dr. Coleman regarded him with the same amount of sympathy. There is no way to know. I could order more treatment, but unless George approves of it, there’s nothing I can do. I would say, from the results of the tests, that he has six months. I am so sorry.

Jason turned his attention from the woman behind the desk to his husband, whose shoulders had slumped, his face paled. Jason withdrew his hand angrily. "So, you’re going to give up? Just like that? Ten years together, and six months is all I can hope for now? You…you took on the Wall Street crash with more fire than this. We almost lost everything and you told me not to give up, and now, you’re…you’re…this is your LIFE we’re talking about!"

Sweetheart, it’s not the same thing. I don’t want to be sick— George protested, but Jason was shaking so bad with rage he couldn’t take another word coming out of his mouth.

What about what I want? I spent months taking care of you—late nights of fever and vomiting, back and forth to the hospital! For what? For what?! Jason stood and ground his teeth. He wanted to hit George but didn’t dare. He wanted to tear his own hair out, but his eyes welled with tears as he bit down on the inside of his lip, and his fists were clenched so tight at his sides his nails dug into the palms.

Just calm down… George beseeched, also standing up and reaching for Jason, but Jason angrily swiped his hand away.

Don’t touch me! Don’t tell me to calm down! Get your ass back on chemo, grow some fucking balls! Fight! he yelled as his vision swam and his mind reeled.

Baby, please… George said, reaching for him again, but Jason kept fighting him off and shaking his head.

No.

Jason… George grabbed his husband’s elbows and gripped as hard as he could.

You’re giving up on me. You’re giving up on us! You son of a bitch! Jason sobbed, trying to break free. In frustration, anger, and fear, he lashed out. The sound of his hand across George’s face stopped his heart.

His husband’s head had cocked to the side from the force of the blow, but as he turned back, Jason didn’t see anger. No, that fire was gone now. He saw the same blue eyes that had returned his curious glance between the stacks ten years ago. The same blue eyes that had once been filled with concern when Jason wrecked his prize Mustang. But now, those eyes were filled with a sorrowful truth that tore Jason’s soul from his body and brought the grief and despair breaking through the last weak barrier in his mind.

I don’t know how to do this without you, George. What am I gonna do? Jason fell against his lover’s chest as both of them wept, and George held on to him.

Chapter Two

The sun was shining when they stepped out of the hospital; the sky was a bright, robin’s egg blue with a few wisps of clouds like baby’s breath in a bouquet of flowers. The fragrance of wisteria and jasmine carried on the early summer wind, with the rich undertones of morning dew burning off a freshly mowed grass as a maintenance man traversed a zero-turn mower over the south lawn. In the trees, black-bodied grackles bitched back and forth with one another, bobbing their purple-hued heads as if in parliament.

The doctor had given George a great deal of pain medication and pamphlets detailing what she referred to as end-of-life care for when the time of his passing grew closer. She walked them out of her office, once the tears and the apologies for their outburst had been shed. Dr. Coleman would have no apologies offered to her, not for being human beings, she said, and literally walked with them back through the hospital and to the front door, hugging them both one last time.

As they made their way down the steps, George was struck with the beauty of the day. All around him there was life; from the traffic a few hundred yards off to the heat of the sun on his brow, everything seemed to be boiling over with it. Jason was quiet, solemn, and his shoulders sloped down so much he looked as weary as George felt. His heart broke at the thought of leaving him alone in the world, and he couldn’t help the thousands of questions that were all speaking at once, just like the birds in the trees they passed. Would he be all right? Would he find another? Would he remarry? The thought of another man touching Jason, of someone else knowing him the way George did, made him burn with jealousy so hot he had to shove it away to keep from lashing out.

Other questions were there as well. More macabre questions, the kind that sent his pulse racing and made his mouth dry, wanted to bare themselves, and he entertained a few. Did it hurt to die? Who would come to mourn him at the graveyard? Did life exist after this one? There it was, that million-dollar question everyone asked themselves at some point,